Smoke and Fire
by ebonyquill
Summary: A collection of drabbles outlining the presence of smoke and fire throughout Rhaegar Targaryen's life and death.


**smoke and fire  
><strong>_ebonyquill_

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><p>Long, elegant fingers brush the surface of the ruins. The Silver Prince lightly presses his index finger and thumb together. Soot, black as obsidian, clumps into his skin. With pressed lips, his eyes eagerly roam the mausoleum that was once his family's palace. Like the dragons of his ancestors, Rhaegar Targaryen was born amidst smoke and fire.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant dresses taunt him. Whispers and giggles emanating from faceless daughters of nobles thread behind him. Every father is a matchmaker, every girl is a price. He is met by fabrics colored red and orange and gold, a parade of faux dragons attempting to prove that they were born with the inner spark that would not sully the lineage of smoke and fire.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant curls frame the face of Elia Martell. Her eyes are kind and forgiving – forgiving of their arranged marriage, their arranged life. As they swear their loyalty to each other, Rhaegar cannot help, but wonder what loveless life he has resigned her to – guilt consumes him. No amount of inner smoke and fire could help him warm the heart of the princess of desert heat.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant ribbons line the bassinet. Conflicts between his father and the Lannisters, his advisors, the kingdom, and himself weigh him down. A single coo from the darling child sheds all cynicism. With a single blissful sound, greater than any collection of notes from his harp, Rhaegar is momentarily convinced that his kingdom will not go down drowning in smoke and choking on fire.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant swords clank together. Helmets fall apart. The Knight of the Laughing Tree laughs once more as the Silver Prince lets his own silver-tinted sword fall to the ground. After a bated breath, he forwards. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword. With a subtle laughing expression of his own, he picks up her discarded shield. Fire flows through their veins as their eyes meet, unmasked. Smoke flares from the wolf girl's nostrils as they wordlessly consider their options.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant fences separate the dueling arena from the stands – separate the true winner of the tournament from praise and victory. Rhaegar amends this in the only way he knows how – he places the tournament's other great award in her lap. Blue roses have never been so threatening. Justice in his eyes, shock in hers, grave disapproval in everyone else's. He is only half-aware of the trouble he has started – smoke billowing, fire lit.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant locks fill his mind – the way they fell from her helmet, the way they immediately feminized the most fearsome opponent in the entire tournament, the way they invited him to observe and admire the rest of Lyanna Stark's face. He can see it perfectly now – as his father is scolding him and his wife is silently hating him – the fire in her cheeks, the smoky greyness of her eyes.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant tapestries hide them from curious eyes. She came to reprimand him, worried that her father would learn the Laughing Tree's identity, oblivious to her growing reputation as a temptress. He changes the subject and asks her what her betrothed Robert thinks about all of this. A split-second look of confusion and disregard makes him realize that any feeling of fire in the belly between the Baratheon and the Stark is one-sided. But then again, Lyanna Stark hides her emotions behind many smoke screens.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant notes from celebratory horns mark the birth of his son, Aegon. A single kiss to his wife's sweaty forehead adds another glue to the fracture that is their marriage. Her only reply is an accusatory look in her eyes. <em>Are you still writing to <em>_**her**__?_ He apologizes to his Prince that was Promised. He, too, is born amidst smoke and fire. The wildfire of gossip travels faster than any smoke in Westeros.

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><p>Long, elegant footsteps meet in the dark of the forest. Parted lips say nothing. The time for words is over. They have been abused and re-used in their letters summarizing defiance, then indifference, then denial, then – . Their first embrace is daring. Their first kiss is damning. The fire of their bodies keep them warm underneath the smoky, clouded, uncertain sky.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant strokes line the otherwise haphazardly-written alarming letter. For every hour their child grows stronger, the Targaryen forces become weaker. Both are wracked with guilt. The silver lining – their belief that they are fulfilling a prophecy that will save mankind in the days of winter with no hint of smoke and fire – is growing thinner and thinner. Once more, Rhaegar must pick up a shield for the protection of his love and the satisfaction of his father.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant flags denoting the great houses of their realm hang around them like nooses. Dirt and blood and salt fly through the air. He fights Baratheon valiantly for hours. The pressure of his crown, his guilt, and his ancestors' sins weigh down his armor whilst Robert's unrequited love lightens his. He feels the hammer's strength and after he is struck down, the former Prince that was Promised admires his rubies in the water. In a half-whisper and half-prayer, he sings her name. <em>Lyanna<em>, as the smoke and fire in his eyes extinguish.

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><p>Long, elegant cries from the tower are disjointed at first before they meld into the hint of a battle cry. The Queen of Love and Beauty muses that her Silver Prince would have turned the cries of mother and son into something beautiful and euphonious. Nothing extinguishes smoke and fire faster than tears.<p>

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><p>Long, elegant legs stop before her. In her blurred vision, she can see them bend. Her first instinct is to clasp the infant in her arms even tighter. <em>Ned<em>. His horrified look quickly turns into a contortion of scarring sadness. _Promise me, Ned. _Her eyes flicker down to the sleeping babe. With a single affirmation, Lyanna silently apologizes to her family, to her people, to her fallen prince. But most of all, she apologizes to her son. No amount of fire and smoke can protect him from his future battles against the ice and the cold. _Rhaegar_, she sighs as the last spark of fire departs from her eyes only to be replaced by a glossy, empty, icy stare.

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><p>Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I've been on a RhaegarLyanna kick for the past few days so I spat out this little ditty. I've been attempting to write in different story formats and I can't tell if I like this one yet. Excuse me while I go through five million Rhaegar dreamcasts in my head.


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